One More Miracle
by Mair Technosage
Summary: Picks up after the end of Season 2. How did Sherlock Holmes return to Bakers Street? What did Mrs. Hudson or Watson have to say? Spoilers for the end of season 2!


**_Spoilers for the end of season 2. If you haven't watched it, this story will spoil the end of episode 3 for you._**

* * *

It hadn't been easy to fake his own death. If his hair hadn't been as thick enough to disguise the small hose attached to a bladder of blood slung on his back, if he hadn't had a long coat to disguise the presence of the bladder and cadaver arm, if he hadn't asked Molly and Mycroft (through Molly) for a favor… That stuck in his throat the most—asking for a favor. He needed the truck stopped long enough to catch him (Mycroft's favor), needed to roll between the lowest slats onto the walk and activate the blood while shoving the arm through his sleeve so that anyone checking his pulse wouldn't find one (Molly's favor). Difficult though those things were to do with a near uninterrupted line of sight in order to pull off his demise, he had to remember not to react to John Watson. His friend. He had to listen as John struggled to reach him, watch as he crumbled in one of Mycroft's spies arms when hospital staff finally turned him over. He had to concentrate on lowering his heart rate so that by the time the doctor's listened to his chest his heart rate was down low enough that it appeared as though he didn't have a pulse.

It took all of the skill he had to fake his death successfully enough to keep John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson from theirs. He almost broke when the door of the morgue closed and he heard the footsteps going down the hall—only the sound of a second person breathing in the room kept him still. His let his heart rate rise as Molly asked the assistant to go get her a cup of tea before they started stripping him. His body needed the blood and oxygen. He couldn't pass out yet. There would be time for that when Mycroft finally arrived to take him away.

* * *

It galled him that he needed a safe house from Mycroft. It was absolutely horrendous that Mycroft insisted on dispatching advice about staying away from John and Mrs. Hudson. He knew that Mycroft was correct—that there was a chance he could be observed. It was a good thing he knew their habits as well as the likelihood of where any surveillance could be set up. It only took him a couple of hours to break into Mycrofts computer to see the network of camera's around the areas of London where they were likely to go. He watched with those camera's, eyes trained on the screen in front of him in the dismal, dingy flat with very few windows and babysitters in apartments with a shooting line of sight, as well as in the flat's above and below, for hours. He slept very little. A visiting "nurse" prepared meals that remained mostly unconsumed on the table.

The day he cracked the codes on the microphones in his, no, John's apartment he heard them arrange a trip to visit his grave. The raw sound to their voices was too much. He found himself feeling out of sorts, restless and wanting to see them—watch them move without a camera lens interfering. He felt more alive than he had during the entire thing with Moriarty. He planned his escape—deleting his internet tracks to the camera system carefully, then less carefully with the audio. If Mycroft really wanted to keep tabs he'd know where he went by that. Payback for talking to Moriarty.

He arrived at the graveyard with a train of mourners coming from a nearby church. He went to the gravesite of the unknown woman, and then tearfully left and carefully positioned himself near his own grave. He sat down near a grave of someone "recently" interred in the last 10 years—the bark from the tree catching on the fibers of his coat. No one was likely to approach. He waited. He listened. He hated waiting.

He waited as a car pulled up on the distant access road. He waited for the sound of car doors. He waited as he heard voices murmur softly, words slightly obscured by the soft breeze. He gave a quick glance around, as he stood when the voices stopped near his grave. He casually dusted off his pants, listening, before looking around and turning to face his grave site. His throat seemed to constrict as he watched Mrs. Hudson and John. It was odd, the feeling of wanting to go to them, but afraid to do so. Well, not afraid. But they would not react positively and it would be painfully obvious to anyone observing them when they returned to Bakers street that something was amiss. Mrs. Hudson would cry and scold him. John…John Watson—he was the unknown. It was likely that he may actually strike him unless properly diffused of his anger. According to the conversation drifting toward him, it was a possibility but it would simply have to be carefully done.

He watched Mrs. Hudson walk away. He listened as John told his headstone that he didn't believe one word from that last call, and then pleaded for one last miracle for his best friend. Sherlock felt his body lock in place. He couldn't move if he wanted to now. He watched the broken man leave and knew without a doubt that in spite of the strides he'd made with Sherlock, he would go back to his old therapist (highly unhelpful woman) and that the only thing that would likely help would be him returning. The assassins were still there though. He'd seen them on the surveillance. He had to do something, find something, which would get them away from John and the others.

His gaze tracked the fingers that tapped his headstone, and then heavily fell away. He watched as the shorter man walked off the same way that Mrs. Hudson passed those few moments ago. His throat impossibly tight, he stood as still as the tree he hid behind—thinking. He had to plan. It would be hard, his toughest case yet—John wasn't likely to go and seek out answers for him believing, as he was, that he was dead and Lestrade wouldn't be easy to use believing himself and Watson tainted by association. Lestrade receiving the admonishment from his chief, even if Mycroft could remove it easily from his record, would make controlling him difficult. Bureaucracy was so tedious and inefficient.

No. He could manipulate the police. He would simply have to manipulate Anderson and Donovan independently to clear his name. They would be used to work the chain up and then down to Lestrade. Distaste caused him to inhale hard enough to flare his nostrils. He slowly turned away from his grave and sat back down against the tree.

The idiots. He would have to work on changing the mind of an idiot. At least it would be a challenge. It would give him something else to do other than staring at closed circuit footage, but he hated the media—so frivolous and biased. It would be much better if John would do it. Unfortunately, that wasn't an option he had at the moment. He needed to get back to the flat. The internet was good for something and Mycroft knew better than to take all his amusements away. He'd wait a bit longer, and then go to the funeral occurring on the other side of the park and leave with the mourners. He had a return to plan.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes stared fixedly at the computer screen in front of him. This would be his final blow to the mind of an idiot. It only took eight months to orchestrate. Eight long months of watching assassins get arrested, deported, or set up on trumped up charges so they could be deported and arrested upon arrival to their countries of origin. It galled him to have to lead Donovan and Lestrade by the nose. Mycroft even helped with this last bit if unintentionally. The lecture about hacking government resources had been exceedingly tedious. John would be proud he didn't fall asleep during it.

On screen Anderson leaned over the edge of Donovan's desk and flipped open a folder. The nameless computer technician waved a hand at the file, and then re-arranged the contents. He could barely make out what he knew to be Moriarty's financial records. You can't call a man an actor if he had fiscal resources in roughly 196 recognized countries and 14 territories and nearly as many alias' connected circumstantially with the recently arrested and deported. Moriarty had employed fewer moronic individuals that Scotland Yard—depressingly enough. He very nearly got discovered by one of his "traps" left behind to prevent the clearing of his name. It took one of his homeless spies, one of the more careful ones, being given his pocket magnifier and a note with information for Donovan on one of her more stubborn cases to avoid getting caught giving information that would lead to another clue on Moriarty for the Yard.

He minimized the closed circuit view, hacked into the computer on the desk outside Lestrade's office and triggered a porn alert. It would create a ding and cause Lestrade to look over and see the crowd at Donovan's desk. He opened the video feed again. A text box window appeared over the view of Donovan's desk. He frowned at Mycroft's message and closed it. The video feed closed.

Exasperated, he re-opened the connection only to have it shut down again. Sherlock set his jaw, opened up the text program and started a new document; "Quit interfering with my work". He added two other routes through his hacking stream and re-connected to the camera. He watched as Lestrade approached the desk and the other three started talking to him.

Text appeared on the screen below his words. "Likewise. I need that section chief." The camera view ceased again.

Sherlock centered the document window. He typed, "I'll find you a new one for Christmas. In the mean time consider this a belated birthday present to me."

"It will take months to cultivate a new one."

"Then you shouldn't allow them to accept bribes from psychopathic megalomaniac's hell bent on making themselves a kingpin of the criminal underworld. Really, Mycroft, you really should train operatives better if you're going to use them as such."

Sherlock resumed hacking of the security camera's but this time switched to Lestrade's office. As anticipated the four had moved into there and so he activated the audio bug in Lestrade's desk phone. He listened as they discussed the section chief-Moriarty connection and the likelihood that they were in fact, possibly wrong about him. He leaned back in the desk chair, listening at the tinny voices coming out of the inferior speakers. He closed the connection as Lestrade picked up the phone to call for an arrest warrant.

He'd give the police another month with this most recent development before he'd send his confederate the pocket magnifier. Hopefully that would wake John up and give him enough time to figure out that he wasn't dead at which point the first criminal trial and appeal would be over for that odious section chief. He couldn't wait to go home.

* * *

It was decided: a note on one Dr. John H. Watson's blog from an anonymous commenter that said "One more miracle". He posted it at three in the morning on the blog on the "anniversary" of his death. He'd dropped a note off for Mrs. Hudson, who'd gone out for the day the day before letting her know he wanted his equipment back. She should return and receive the note about the same time John would get the alert about the new comment on his blog. John would rush out to the graveyard once the comment and the magnifier clicked and would inevitably not listen to Mrs. Hudson. By the time John returned he should have his equipment back and dealt with her tears before John appeared to complicate the situation. After being separated so publically, it would not do to be reunited publically. Besides, if he was going to be hit he certainly didn't want any witnesses except for those who wouldn't tell a soul.

Besides, he wanted his violin and skull back—both of them.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson cried, as expected. He didn't appreciate that, but he managed to get her sorted out with little fuss. Quite the effort too since she followed through on donating his equipment to a school. He'd have to go about getting a whole new kit somehow—or spend more time with tedious people. At least John was more predictable. His clothes had simply been packed in boxes, but not removed.

He managed to get those unpacked, but still had yet to find his skull. Mrs. Hudson had joined him in the flat and made him a cup of tea "for old times' sake". He was about to play something for her when he heard the front door open. A heavy trudging step ascended the stairs and John came through the open door, eyes fixed on the floor.

"You're late." Sherlock announced. He watched, as John's eyes widened and locked on him. "You should have been back ten minutes ago—you must have had to flag down another cab from the main road. You should have told the cabby to wait." He watched as John's astonished expression grew defensive.

"And speaking of telling people things—why didn't you tell Mrs. Hudson to hold on to my equipment? I'm going to have to collect it all again in order to restart my experiments. And what of my skull?"

John's mouth opened, and then closed as his pallid face got a bit more color. "That's it? You…you've been gone…Dead for two years, you never contacted us to tell us otherwise and you swan in dickering about your bloody equipment being gone?!"

"Well, yes. It's expensive equipment. Besides—you could have talked to Mycroft about this months ago when I arranged to get the pocket magnifier to you. If you'd been paying any attention at all you would have realized that there were assassins posted around the flat, not just the ones after the code—fictional by the way, and that they had a purpose. You knew I wasn't suicidal, and you clearly didn't believe what I said, so why would you believe I committed suicide in the first place? Why not investigate after a few months when you noticed neighbors disappearing or being arrested? Did you not keep up with the news at all?"

Mrs. Hudson looked at us, then got up saying "I'm going to let you boys hash this out. It's good to have you back, Sherlock." She left as John took a couple of steps toward him.

John seemed to be unsure how to respond. His hands clenched into fists, relaxed, and then formed fists again. He shifted his weight slightly. The color continued to rise in his face and he looked away. Mrs. Hudson's door closed with a light bang. The clock on the mantle was the only sound as he watched John come to terms with him retaking his place in the flat.

"You can hit me if you like, but be advised that it was for your own good." Sherlock carefully set the violin down in the open case, gently placing the bow on top. "You'll probably feel guilty later," he continued. Watching John take a step toward him out of the corner of his eye. "If I hadn't "died", if you hadn't believed it, if the witness assassin hadn't believed it—you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would be dead. Moriarty killed himself so I couldn't use him to stop the assassins."

John took another step toward him. "I'm not going to hit you, Sherlock." His conflicting emotions and body language stilled. John's eyes locked on his face flickering over his features and then down his body—memorizing his form. He took one more step and grabbed hold of Sherlock.

Sherlock blinked as John's arms circled around his chest in a tight, desperate feeling hug. Surprising even himself, he found his arms around John and just as tight. John was solid, real—not a figure on a security camera or a computerized voice coming through inadequate computer speakers. He wasn't going to have to leave again. Moriarty had died, but he survived. He cleared his name.

"Never do that to me again. Thank you, but never again."

Sherlock's eyes closed and a ghost of a smile curled the edge of his lips. "Any time."

They continued embracing for a few more minutes, when Sherlock thought of something. "John, lend me your phone."

The arms around him loosened and John peered up at him. "What?"

"Now that I'm back I need to let Lestrade know that I'm available for cases again."

"You're joking…The papers—as far as the yard goes you're a fraud who led them around by the nose for years."

"Only the last year and seven months. Surely you don't think I wouldn't have cleared my name with them prior to returning, do you? Phone please."

"Only the last—Sherlock! They knew?!"

"Of course not, that's why it took so long. They're idiots—especially Anderson. You should be pleased it only took eight and a half months and a ridiculous amount of data even they couldn't try to misconstrue to convince them. I even got Lestrade back into his chief's good graces. Phone?"

John stared at him looking exasperated, then smiled and let go—fishing his phone from his pocket.

Sherlock took the offered phone, typed a quick message as he walked toward the sofa, fingers flying, and then turned and tossed the phone back to John.

John smiled as he caught the phone. Sherlock mirrored the smile as he watched John check the message reflexively.

"To: Lestrade

Donovan and Anderson are still idiots. See you at 3.

SH"

* * *

The end

* * *

_Thank you for reading! This is my first Sherlock fic-hope you enjoyed! Please let me know what you think._


End file.
